Colored Squares

I keep seeing colored squares of glass in front of my eyes;

As shinning parts of ceiling, they lay beautifully in the sky.

Raising my hand in the air, stretching hard, I try and try,

To reach and touch them, but where they are is too high.

The sun will give them life and slowly warm their hearts,

I see a flat top made out of colored squared parts,

Blazing softly in mornings of smelling coffee on the table,

Standing quietly outside, under an old, kinglike hazel.

And there is a chill wind in summer stroking my face

I smell wet earth, I close my eyes and I embrace

The voice of nature, the way it lives with deepest grace

She honors me and welcomes me into this space.

She whispers me to find myself, to live and learn

To see the beauty growing inside an useful thorn

And keep the self in youthful skin over the time,

She is mother, father, shelter – home, she’s mine

To cherish, to admire, to fight for it and to protect,

Against all tides might be casted upon

She grows from deep inside and keeps me strong

Like every pill with its own side-effect.

To strike the sky, same as lightning and shape the earth,

In storms, never to the end of time, I dream of fairytales, no lies,

To return to the very basics, to the best rebirth;

Still, all I see are colored squares of glass in front of my eyes.

Blue Devils

She shivered in the cold

That frozen the fallen leaf

And cried

At the dead poor thing

Which quickly chipped

In her hand.

Her tears crystallized

As the sounds were

Heard

Never again.

And she realized

No relief

Would come

With the inevitable end.

Illusions.

All she could hold in her hands,

And gather in her arms

Kissing ghosts

Of burning dreams,

Delusions,

As they all seem.

She rocked

As time transfuse

Cold in her vain,

Dead,

Her blood became

And mind

Refuse

To let it go

As she does not know

How to lose.

Poor little thing has gone

Resting now in your arm

And you cry

I don’t know why

But, I guess, this means,

You are still alive inside

Despite the mortal genes.

Truth of Cold Wind

A cold wind lets me know

That I have nowhere to go,

Nowhere to run

And the pain has just begun.

A tumble of clouds

Remember me there are no gods

To watch over my shoulder,

The day is getting colder

Deprived of warm of sun,

Faith stands as a pointed gun

To the back of my head,

Wants me neither alive, nor dead;

Just to live with that fear,

That is so far, but seems so near.

A cold wind lets me feel

That dreams are dreams,

They are not real.